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star-wars-writing · 3 months

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A Starship's Tale

A/N:Welcome, readers, to a tale set in the heart of the Clone Wars. This story is the tenth story for @codywanbingo with the prompt Sparring together, it explores the depths of emotion and connection in a time of conflict, focusing on the evolving relationship between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody.

In the heart of the Republic starship, a realm dedicated to the preparation for battle, the training room echoed with a silence that spoke volumes. Here, amidst the cold metallic walls that had witnessed countless sessions of combat training, a different kind of encounter was unfolding. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody, usually engaged in the elegant dance of lightsaber combat, now stood facing each other, prepared for a more primal form of confrontation – hand-to-hand combat.

The room, bathed in the sterile light of the ship's interior, felt smaller, more intimate with the absence of weapons. This was a space where the hum of the engines merged seamlessly with the distant, muffled sounds of the ship's crew, creating a backdrop of constant, unobtrusive motion. But within these walls, a different rhythm was about to commence – one dictated by the movements of two warriors stripped of their usual armaments.

Obi-Wan, devoid of his Jedi robes, wore a simple tunic and trousers that allowed for unrestricted movement. His stance was relaxed yet alert, the embodiment of a Jedi's controlled calm. His eyes, usually a wellspring of wisdom and serenity, now flickered with a focused intensity. In this close-quartered setting, every motion would be more immediate, every exchange a direct transfer of energy and intent.

Across from him, Cody, absent his customary armor, presented a figure of raw, disciplined strength. His muscular build, often concealed beneath the rigid plates of his battle attire, was now openly displayed, showcasing the physicality of a soldier. His stance was grounded, a reflection of his pragmatic approach to combat – direct, efficient, unyielding.

As they began, the air between them crackled with a palpable tension. This was not the elegant, sweeping motion of lightsaber duels, but the gritty, visceral reality of hand-to-hand combat. Each movement carried a weight of purpose; a lunge, a block, a feint, each action was a word in their silent dialogue.

Obi-Wan, employing the techniques of Teras Kasi, moved with a fluid grace that belied the power behind his strikes. His approach was one of balance and harmony, each motion flowing into the next, a seamless chain of offense and defense. He was like water – yielding yet forceful, adapting to each new challenge with fluid precision.

Cody, in contrast, embodied the directness of military hand-to-hand combat training. His moves were sharp and decisive, each strike a testament to his focus and determination. He was like a storm – relentless, powerful, each motion a burst of controlled aggression.

Their dance was a juxtaposition of styles, a testament to their different paths – the Jedi and the soldier. Yet, within this contrast lay a deep-seated mutual respect, a recognition of each other's strengths and abilities. As they exchanged blows, parrying and countering with increasing intensity, there was an undercurrent of something deeper, a connection that transcended the physicality of their sparring.

Obi-Wan's attacks, though measured and precise, carried an unspoken question with each strike, probing not just Cody's defenses but the barriers he had erected around himself. Cody's counters, forceful yet controlled, were his response – a silent admission of the turmoil within, a turmoil that resonated with the emotions Obi-Wan himself was grappling with.

Their exchanges grew more intense, sweat beading on their foreheads, muscles straining under the exertion. In this dance, each touch, each moment of contact, was an exploration – not just of physical boundaries, but of emotional ones. The space between them was charged with an unspoken dialogue, a conversation of pushes and pulls, advances and retreats.

As the session drew to a close, they stood, breaths heavy, gazes locked. In that moment, the training room, with its stark walls and echoing stillness, transformed into a confessional, a space where unspoken truths lingered on the brink of revelation. The understanding in their eyes was clear – they were not just comrades in arms, but two souls navigating the complexities of connection amidst the backdrop of war.

They parted with a nod, a mutual acknowledgment of the uncharted territory they had

just ventured into. The physical distance they put between themselves as they exited the training room did little to dispel the newfound proximity of their inner worlds. In the silence that followed their departure, the training room stood as a silent witness to the shift in their relationship, a shift marked not by grand gestures or declarations, but by the subtle language of body and glance, a language as old as time itself.

Obi-Wan, his thoughts a swirling vortex, retreated to the solitude of his quarters. The physical exertion of the session had done little to tire him; instead, it had ignited a deeper introspection. He pondered over the revelations the session had brought forth, the unexpected stirrings of emotion that Cody had unknowingly awakened. It was a path fraught with uncertainty, one that challenged the very foundations of his beliefs and his adherence to the Jedi code.

Meanwhile, Cody, his usual disciplined facade slightly cracked, found himself in the vastness of the ship's observation deck. Gazing out into the star-studded expanse of space, he contemplated the tumultuous feelings that had been stirred. The straightforward, uncomplicated existence of a soldier, once his only reality, now seemed inadequate to contain the complexity of his emotions. The experience with Obi-Wan had opened a door he had long kept shut, revealing a landscape of potential and peril that extended far beyond the battlefield.

In the days that followed, their interactions were marked by a new depth, a subtle shift in dynamics that did not go unnoticed by those around them. The soldiers, perceptive in their own right, observed the change with a mix of curiosity and respect. Whispers and speculative glances were exchanged, but the unspoken code of the ship ensured that their privacy remained intact.

Obi-Wan and Cody continued their training sessions, each encounter a further exploration of their evolving relationship. The physicality of their sparring became a metaphor for their emotional journey – a journey of discovery, understanding, and, perhaps most daunting of all, vulnerability.

In the midst of a galaxy torn by war, aboard a starship sailing through the endless night, two souls found themselves at the precipice of a profound connection. It was a connection that defied convention and expectation, a testament to the unpredictable nature of the heart and the indomitable spirit of connection that can flourish even in the most unlikely of places.

The training room aboard the Republic starship was a symphony of controlled chaos, its metallic walls reverberating with the sounds of clashing and grunting. In the center, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody, surrounded by a ring of soldiers, were locked in an intense hand-to-hand sparring session. The air was thick with tension, a tangible undercurrent to the usual rhythm of their training.

Obi-Wan, his movements fluid and precise, was the picture of Jedi calm. Yet, beneath this composed exterior, a storm of emotions raged, stirred by the recent shift in his relationship with Cody. Each block and parry carried a weight beyond physical training; it was a dance of unspoken words and suppressed feelings.

Cody, on the other hand, was a maelstrom of focus and intensity. His usual stoic demeanor was cracked, revealing a depth of emotion that rarely surfaced. The commander's strikes were sharp, a little too forceful, betraying the inner conflict he wrestled with.

The soldiers around them watched with a mix of awe and curiosity. They were used to seeing their leaders spar, but today, there was an electric charge in the air, a sense that something significant was unfolding before their eyes.

“Good, Cody. But remember, control,” Obi-Wan advised, parrying a particularly aggressive jab. His voice was steady, but his eyes, usually a wellspring of calm, flickered with a complex mix of concern and something deeper, harder to discern.

Cody grunted in acknowledgment, his expression hardening. The next exchange was fast, a blur of movement and power. In a swift motion, Cody broke through Obi-Wan's defense, pushing him back with unexpected force.

The room fell silent as Obi-Wan stumbled, barely catching himself. A look of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by one of understanding. He locked eyes with Cody, seeing the turmoil there, the unspoken apology, the fear.

Cody stepped back, his chest heaving. The intensity of his gaze wavered, a silent battle raging behind his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the training room, leaving a wake of stunned silence.

Obi-Wan watched him go, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. The other soldiers exchanged glances, their respect for their commanders mingled with a newfound curiosity about the dynamics at play.

“Resume training,” Obi-Wan finally said, his voice betraying none of the turmoil he felt. The soldiers hesitated for a moment before obeying, the rhythm of training resuming, but the atmosphere had shifted irrevocably.

As Obi-Wan engaged with another soldier, his movements were automatic, his mind elsewhere. He was acutely aware of the absence of Cody, of the unsaid things hanging between them like stars in the vastness of space. The session ended with routine efficiency, but the questions it raised lingered, unspoken but heavy in the air.

Later, in the quiet of his quarters, Obi-Wan sat in contemplation. The events of the day replayed in his mind, each moment a clue to the puzzle that was Cody. He knew he had to address what had happened, to bridge the gap that had opened between them. But the path forward was unclear, obscured by duty, the Jedi code, and the uncharted territory of his own heart.

***

In the days following their intense sparring session, the Republic starship felt like a world subtly altered, its corridors and common areas echoing with a new, unspoken narrative. Commander Cody, once a steadfast presence, became a shadow of his former self, his interactions with the crew and, most notably, with Obi-Wan Kenobi, marked by a stark transformation.

Cody, whose demeanor had always been an embodiment of discipline and efficiency, now moved through the ship like a ghost, his steps devoid of their usual purpose. His exchanges with the crew were brief, his words clipped, devoid of the warmth that had occasionally flickered in his interactions. In briefings, his reports were concise, lacking the insightful comments he was known for. He became a soldier wearing the armor of detachment, his gaze often drifting to a distant point, as if he were looking at something far beyond the ship's confines.

Obi-Wan, sensitive to the undercurrents of emotion, watched this change with a deepening concern. He noticed how Cody's eyes would briefly meet his before darting away, as if the contact was too much to bear. In the mess hall, Cody chose seats in the corners, away from the lively banter of the clone troopers, his meals consumed quickly, almost mechanically.

The change did not go unnoticed by the crew. Whispers circulated, a blend of speculation and worry. They respected Commander Cody, and seeing him so withdrawn sparked a ripple of unease. The clones, in particular, felt a sense of disquiet, their camaraderie with Cody having been a constant in their regimented lives.

In the solitude of his quarters, Cody grappled with the tempest within him. The walls, adorned with the sparse decorations of a military life, felt constricting, a physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind. He was torn between the discipline that had defined his existence and the surge of emotions that the recent encounters with Obi-Wan had unleashed. His mind replayed their sparring session, each moment a reminder of the unspoken truths that lay between them.

The conflict within Cody was not just about breaking protocol or defying the expectations of a clone commander. It was deeper, a fundamental questioning of his identity, his purpose. The feelings for Obi-Wan, so starkly brought to light, were at odds with everything he had been taught to value – order, duty, the mission.

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan found himself in a state of introspection, his usual clarity clouded by the complexity of his emotions. In the quiet of his quarters, he pondered over the right course of action. His training as a Jedi Master had always provided a roadmap for dealing with conflicts, both external and internal. Yet, this situation with Cody, it was uncharted territory, a delicate balance of personal feelings and the responsibilities of his role.

Obi-Wan realized that the bond he shared with Cody had evolved, morphing into something deeper, something that defied the simple categorization of friendship or comradeship. He acknowledged, perhaps for the first time, that his concern for Cody transcended the boundaries of their professional relationship.

The decision to reach out to Cody came after much deliberation. Obi-Wan understood that any conversation they had would be fraught with vulnerability, but the growing chasm between them was a risk to both their well-being and their ability to function effectively as a team.

Choosing a quiet evening, when the ship's activities had wound down to the slow hum of routine, Obi-Wan made his way to Cody's quarters. Standing before the door, he took a moment to compose himself, to find the balance between the Jedi Master and the man who cared deeply for the person on the other side of the door.

He pressed the buzzer, the sound a soft chime in the corridor's stillness. The door slid open, revealing Cody, his expression one of guarded surprise.

"Cody,

may I come in?" Obi-Wan asked, his voice carrying a calmness that belied the turmoil within.

Cody hesitated, his posture rigid, the lines of his face drawn tight with an unspoken struggle. After a moment that stretched like a chasm, he stepped aside, a silent assent.

Obi-Wan entered, his eyes taking in the starkness of the room, a reflection of the discipline and order that defined Cody's life. The air felt heavy, charged with the unvoiced thoughts that hung between them.

"Cody, we need to talk," Obi-Wan began, his words deliberate, each one chosen with care. "I've noticed you've been distant since our last sparring session. Is everything alright?"

Cody turned away, his gaze fixed on the small viewport that offered a view of the endless expanse of space. "I'm fine, sir," he replied, the formality of his tone a barrier he erected between them.

Obi-Wan took a step closer, his voice softening. "Cody, you don't have to call me 'sir' here. This isn't about rank or protocol. This is about you, about us."

Cody's shoulders tensed, the muscles beneath his shirt bunching with the effort to maintain control. "There's nothing to discuss, General. I'm just focusing on my duties," he said, but his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty, a crack in the armor he had so carefully constructed.

Obi-Wan sighed, a deep, weary exhalation. "I know you, Cody. I've seen you in battle, seen you face impossible odds with courage and determination. But this," he gestured vaguely between them, "this isn't something you can fight or strategize your way through."

Cody finally turned, his eyes meeting Obi-Wan's. In them, there was a storm of emotions - conflict, fear, and something else, something that mirrored the feelings Obi-Wan himself harbored. "It's not that simple, Obi-Wan. You of all people should know that. Our lives, our duties, they don't leave room for... for this."

Obi-Wan nodded, acknowledging the truth in Cody's words. "I know the constraints we both live under. But denying what we feel, burying it under duty and obligation, that's not the answer. We're more than just a Jedi and a clone commander. We're people, Cody, with emotions and needs that go beyond our roles."

The room fell silent, the tension between them a palpable force. Cody looked away, a silent battle raging within him. Obi-Wan waited, giving him the space to process, to find the words that seemed to elude him.

Finally, Cody spoke, his voice low and strained. "What are you saying, Obi-Wan? That we should just forget who we are, forget the rules that govern our lives?"

"No," Obi-Wan replied gently. "I'm saying that sometimes, we have to look beyond the rules, listen to what our hearts are telling us. I can't pretend that I don't feel something more for you, Cody. And I believe, I hope, that you might feel the same."

Cody's facade cracked, the soldier's discipline giving way to the man's vulnerability. "I don't know what to do with these feelings, Obi-Wan. They go against everything I've been trained for, everything I've believed in."

Obi-Wan reached out, placing a hand on Cody's shoulder, a gesture of support and connection. "We'll figure it out together. We don't have to have all the answers now. All I'm asking is that we acknowledge what's between us, give it a chance to be more than just unspoken words and hidden glances."

Cody's resistance waned, the weight of his internal struggle lessening under the understanding and compassion in Obi-Wan's eyes. He nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of the journey they were about to embark on, one fraught with uncertainty but also filled with the promise of something profound and transformative.

As Obi-Wan left Cody's quarters, there was a sense of a door opening, a new chapter in their lives beginning. The ship, with its metallic corridors and hum of activity, felt less like a vessel hurtling through space and more like

a witness to the unfolding of something deeply human, a narrative that transcended the usual boundaries of duty and rank.

In the quiet that followed, Cody stood alone, the echo of Obi-Wan's words lingering in the room like a new kind of music, one that resonated with the unexplored parts of his heart. He gazed out into the cosmos, the stars a tapestry of possibilities, mirroring the uncharted territory of his emotions. For the first time, he allowed himself to consider a future where his feelings could have a place, where the strict lines of his existence could blur into something richer, more colorful.

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan walked through the corridors with a sense of purpose, his steps lighter, his mind clearer. The conversation with Cody had been a risk, but it was a risk born of necessity, of the need to acknowledge the truth that had been silently growing between them. He felt a sense of relief, a weight lifted, knowing that the path ahead, though uncertain, was one they had chosen to walk together.

The crew, sensing the subtle shift in their commanders, watched with a mixture of curiosity and respect. The clones, in particular, saw in Cody a reflection of their own struggles with identity and purpose. In Obi-Wan, they saw a leader who valued the individual, who understood that beneath the armor and robes, there were hearts beating with desires and dreams.

In the following days, the dynamic between Obi-Wan and Cody subtly changed. Their interactions were tinged with a new depth, a mutual understanding that spoke of shared secrets and unspoken promises. They continued their duties with the same dedication and skill, but there was an undercurrent of something more, a connection that had deepened, becoming something integral to their existence.

Their training sessions, once a routine part of their regimen, took on a new significance. They were no longer just exercises in combat skills but moments of connection, opportunities to explore the balance between strength and vulnerability, discipline and emotion.

In this galaxy torn by conflict and strife, aboard a starship navigating the endless expanse of space, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody found themselves at the beginning of a journey not just of war and strategy, but of self-discovery and connection. It was a journey that defied the norms, that challenged the conventions of their lives, but in its defiance, it offered a glimpse of something truly extraordinary – the power of understanding, empathy, and the courage to face the unknown, together.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are deeply appreciated. Your support inspires me to keep writing!

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thegreatwicked · 8 months

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Meditations

Mediations

For Madelight

Summary: Amid the summer heat on Dathomir, Maul finds himself unable to sleep, restless thoughts stirring within him. Seeking solace, he attempts meditation, only to be joined by his companion Zeala. As they navigate the challenges of finding inner calm, their connection deepens, and unspoken emotions come to the surface. Together, in the quiet moments of the night, they discover a shared intimacy that transcends words and the boundaries of their world.

Notes: Do I need to explain that this takes place in an alternate universe? No? Ok, so here we go. Maul, Savage, and Feral are alive and whole, Maul was not bisected in this universe. The three brothers return to Dathomir after the near massacre of their people to find Mother Talzin, dying. Desperate to see Dathomir reborn, Mother Talzin tasks the strongest of her children, Maul, to bring about a new age on Dathomir. Maul alongside his brothers and his mate, Zeala. Zeala is a native Dathomirian woman who was taken as a young child from her world and raised as a bounty hunter. She meets Maul on Mandalore and they are an established item. If you are a cannon snob then this is not the story for you, please see yourself out or sit down and enjoy. Get’cha an orange creamsicle cause this is gonna be spicy.

Dathomir.

The summer night wraps around the world outside, creating a dark backdrop dotted with sparkling stars like keiber crystals. It is captivating yet eerie, embodying the world's dual nature. The air is heavy and hot, and the sun's departure has not done much to make the temperature more bearable. Occasionally, a warm breeze wanders through the long hallways, briefly relieving the persistent warmth. Despite the inviting bed and the cool sheets against my skin, I cannot seem to fall asleep. I look around the room without any real purpose, feeling frustrated without a clear reason. The day has been lengthy and satisfying, my mind occupied and content. My body is tired, but each time I shut my eyes, my thoughts remain restless.

The physical comfort alone should be enough, but a restless feeling under my skin stops me from finding the peace I crave. My stare fixes upon the ceiling; an empty canvas that holds no answers, provokes no thoughts, and elicits no emotions.

In the haven of my home, solitude feels like a distant memory. My brothers stand by my side to share my burdens, and even as my mother's final days approach, her presence remains as she guides me to the task of rebuilding our home. She celebrates my son and has embraced Zeala, my mate, as one of her own, teaching her the magics that are her birthright.

Next to me, she rests, my mate and companion, enveloped in the solace that rightfully befits a woman of Dathomir. Her ghostly hair flows like a silken veil across the pillow that she holds close to her chest. Slumbering on her stomach, her arms encircle the pillow she clings to as if finding refuge in its embrace.

The intricate tattoos adorning her form draw my gaze down her body, tracing the delicate curve of her back and waist before disappearing beneath the sheet that grazes her hips. Her very presence in my life is still something of a mystery to me, a riddle I have never been able to solve.

Companionship.

It is not something the path of a Sith or Night Brother would have ever afforded to me. As a Sith, lust and embracing of passions was encouraged but such connections led to mercy and mercy was weakness. As a Night Brother the only touch of a woman I would have ever known was as a breeder in servitude to the Night Sisters. Devoid of any sense of equality.

However, Zeala challenges those conventions, carving out her role in my existence as a true equal. Such a thing would have been deemed heretical by both Sith and Night Sisters.

In her presence, I discover a paradox—a connection that feels both forbidden and undeniable. She is mine to protect, mine to touch, sometimes to fight with, and has born my son; complexities that defy my training and upbringing. But I am a Sith no more. And I am not bound by the traditions of the Night Brothers and Night Sisters.

As I contemplate these reflections, her delicate figure stirs, turning on the pillow, arms reaching overhead in a contented stretch. Her naked body is now revealed to my appreciative gaze. Bathed in the moonlight, its gentle glow caresses the curves of her skin, mingling with her tattoos and the various scars from battles she's endured, along with the unmistakable imprints left by carrying my son. A surge of lust courses through my veins and my hearts beat faster. My hands flex with the urge to reach over and touch her, it is overwhelming the sudden desire I have for her; to taste her perfect breasts, to envelope myself in her warmth and make her sing for me. The spectral beauty she possesses stirs sensations within me that at times, I am still learning to understand and control, yet my reverence for her keeps me from waking her. In this quiet contemplation, I make my choice.

It is time to seek solace in solitude, to find my path amidst the swirling tempest of thoughts and emotions.

My path leads me down the ancient stone hallways to a chamber which lies mostly bare and unadorned; yet graced by an open balcony that gifts me a panoramic view of Dathomir’s desolately, haunting landscape. Torches cast a gentle, flickering light upon the walls, creating a dance of shadows that mirrors my inner contemplations.

My legs fold into a familiar cross-legged posture, and I close my eyes, deliberately cutting off the world's visual distractions. Through the balcony, a warm breeze caresses my skin, carrying with it the essence of Dathomir's spirit, both harsh and alluring.

With each breath, I attempt to cast off the shackles of the outside world. Muscles taut from battles struggle to relax, slowly despite my training to always be ready, yielding to the sensation of the breeze and the coolness of the stone beneath me. My breath becomes a lifeline, a guide leading me back to the present moment.

Inhale. Exhale.

The rhythm of my twin heartbeats reverberate within me, a unique cadence born of Zabrak physiology. This is my anchor, grounding me in the now, granting me a brief reprieve from the chaos that clutters my mind.

As I continue to breathe, the world fades into the background. My consciousness extends, attempting to merge with the land, the air, and the very pulse of the planet. Yet I am further disappointed. Frustration simmers beneath my controlled exterior as my efforts to clear my mind continue to be thwarted by an ever-persistent barrage of thoughts. I release a measured breath, acknowledging my momentary defeat and my shoulders slump as if to surrender to the weight of my internal chaos.

Suddenly her presence calls to me at the edges of my consciousness.

I can sense her behind me.

The very air changes as she silently observes my struggles. She waits quietly for a few moments before seeking me out. Trying to ascertain whether I am receptive to her presence or if she should leave me, but the truth of the matter is, that it is a rare occasion that I do not desire her closeness. Even in my most angered state, when I feel more beast than man and pulse with anger powerful enough to rip worlds apart, Zeala’s presence, her touch, and her very breath on my skin soothes me; and I do not understand it.

Her footfalls are soft against the stone floor, approaching as if trying not to startle a skittish creature. I find myself contemplating if that is the lens through which she views me. However, there is no need for her to tread so cautiously, I hold an unspoken devotion to my mate that runs so deep, that I would readily offer my very lifeblood before ever causing her a shred of harm.

A ripple of awareness draws my focus to the cool touch of her hand gliding across my back. She kneels behind me and I can feel the warmth of her breath on my skin as her forehead rests between my shoulder blades—the gesture is both intimate and grounding. This is the sensation I yearn for when thoughts of her consume my mind. And that is the puzzling part—no Night Brother has ever experienced such a connection with a Night Sister. Regardless of how and where Zeala and I met and what our courses are, she is, at her core, a Dathomirian woman. And this union we have, this connection we share is unusual for our shared culture.

Our bond is unparalleled, defying the norms of our customs. It is more than mere intimacy—it is a bond unlike any other. She comprehends me, understanding my thoughts and desires sometimes before I even realize them myself. In another life, the ways of the Sith would dictate severing all connections with her, perhaps even snuffing out her life; viewing her as a vulnerability not to be tolerated. But I am no longer a Sith; I have become Maul once more, son of Dathomir. While the grip of the Sith teachings has weakened, their lessons remain deeply ingrained, making it challenging to dismiss them entirely.

In the customs of our people, parity would elude us; I would assume a subservient role to her, bowing to her, her wishes and whims guiding my stars. If she commanded, offer my blood for any cause she deems worthy. I would exist to serve her, aiming to bring her pleasure; a life not wretched compared to my past horrors. Nonetheless, the intimacy we embrace would not be sanctioned, our cohabitation forbidden. Her absence from my side in our shared bed breeds frustration.

Gradually, these musings disperse, replaced by a hint of a smile as I savor the wordless tenderness she offers. It is a curious revelation, having spent a lifetime devoid of such connections or sensations, yet finding myself relishing them so profoundly, yearning for their presence. The whisper of her breath caresses my spine gently, a subtle disruption to my usual composure. With my eyes firmly shut, I maintain my focus, her proximity an intermittent interruption in my concentration.

Breaking the silence with a quiet and knowing tone, I address the situation, curious about the disturbance that has roused her from what should be a peaceful slumber.

“What has awakened you?”

"I could hear the thunder of your thoughts," She remarks in a whisper, her voice a blend of tenderness and desire. It is a comparison that always catches me by surprise, a reminder of her unique connection to my inner world, even though she cannot truly read my mind.

“I highly doubt that.” My tone is light-hearted with amusement, as I release a breath and temporarily abandon my efforts. "I did not want to disturb your rest." It often surprises me how I think of her well-being before my own.

I shift my gaze toward her, allowing her fingers to glide up my neck, their delicate trail making its way to trace the creased lines on my forehead. Only Zeala possesses the ability to offer such a touch—one that carries a deep tranquility; a connection that is exclusively ours. I convey how my thoughts were a jumble, too intricate to disturb her slumber, hence why I turned to meditation for solace. Her touch persists, a soothing caress mapping the lines etched into my skin.

“How is your meditation progressing?” I scoff and don’t answer immediately,

"Focus eludes me." I further the sentiment with a dry tone. “Though it is difficult to find focus with such distractions, your touch for instance.”

“Perhaps you should channel that focus and teach me.”

Zeala is not a patient woman, and the notion of teaching her such a disciplined exercise as meditation draws genuine amusement from me.

"It might serve you well, considering your temper."

A thousand images of Zeala in various states of anger flash through my thoughts, most of them linked to her role as our son's mother. Her fury rivals even that of my mother, rendering her a truly formidable force—one I have no desire to challenge. Yet, oddly enough, witnessing her in such moments has only heightened my admiration for her and intensified my attraction toward her. To witness the extent of her ferocity as she safeguards our son, my son, stirs something within me, a connection that's both difficult to explain and impossible to ignore.

“Are you saying I’m hot-headed?’

“Yes,” I respond bluntly.

“My temper is nothing compared to yours.” She counters, clearly not offended.

“If that is your belief...”

"My assertion isn't a mere opinion; it's a factual observation. Or have you forgotten the fate you bestowed upon Garyss?"

Yes. That.

A snarl curls my lip as I recall the man who dared extort the mother of my son.

The memory of his audacity, his touch on my Zeala, ignites a fire in me. The repugnant thought of his filth marring my mate lingers. The knowledge of his punishment fails to quell my rage, no matter the price he paid. My posture tightens and my fists clench.

I recalla vividly his fear and screams fueling a devious grin, a fate that was well deserved and yet was not brutal enough. Zeala is mostly right, and her observations are correct to a degree.

"You're not entirely innocent in matters of retribution either. Both Savage and I bore witness to your fierce attack against that Twi'lek girl who dared to vie for my attention in your presence." It was quite the spectacle, a sight forever etched in my memory, to see her stake a claim over me.

A shadowy chuckle brushes my ear, the sensation of the sharp edges of her sharp teeth following, accompanied by a sinister tone.

“She won’t make such a mistake again.” Zeala asserting her possession of me in that wicked whisper, I cannot help but wonder if my declarations also ignite similar emotions within her.

"Meditation might offer you the balance you seek."

"Teach me, then. Your discipline might rub off on me." As her lips find my ear once more, her voice whispers, telling me to instruct her, one I struggle to resist.

The warmth of her lips, a tender touch that trails along my spine, resonates deeply within me. Her presence, her breath, her soft words, all contribute to a growing intimacy that beckons as much as it distracts. The very notion is unexpected, yet a part of me is intrigued by her willingness to explore this practice with me.

With a controlled exhalation, I slowly shift my head, just enough to acknowledge her presence and her request. Her bewitching violet eyes hold mine, and I find myself drawn into her gaze, those unusual depths that could drown me.

I nod in agreement. It is then that I notice she has donned my black robe, wrapped in its darkness that contrasts the pallor of her perfect skin. The robe's oversized nature drapes around her like a luxurious blanket, covering her form yet hinting at the fact that she wears nothing else. The possessive thought that she's wearing only my robe is both alluring and intoxicating, deepening the connection between us in a way that stirs something primal within me.

She has done this on purpose.

As I narrow my gaze at her, a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She has taken a calculated step with her choice of attire, and she is fully aware of the effect it is having on me.

“Sit comfortably,”

She follows my instruction to sit, though not as I expected her to. Instead of mirroring my position and posture, she instead, positions herself in my lap, straddling me. It is an unconventional posture, one that defies tradition and expectation. Her hands find purchase on my shoulders, and her forehead presses against mine. Never before has such an intimate pose of meditation been assumed and for a moment I think she cannot be serious so I pose the question.

“Are you truly committed to this?” My tone is a dry mix of skepticism and curiosity, as I wonder if this is some kind of jest – and yet, a part of me hopes it is not. I follow up with a comment on her unique approach, stating, "Your approach is… unorthodox."

Yet, even as I speak, I cannot deny the undercurrent of affection in my words, nor how enjoyable I find this to be.

I instruct her to focus on her breathing, to let go of the tension that clings to her form. As our breaths sync, her body relaxes against mine. Our breaths intermingle, drawing us into a shared rhythm, a connection that is both unusual and intriguing.

Her thumbs tracing soft patterns on my shoulders invite a question, a challenge. "Is that for my benefit or yours?" I ask, my voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Her response is honest, confessing that touching me does indeed relax her, it comes as a surprise to me. I find myself mirroring her gesture, my hands lightly stroking her lower back, the touch invoking a subtle shiver that courses through her.

Strange woman, indeed.

I resign myself to Zeala's unusual approach, adjusting her posture ever so slightly, as well as my own. I instruct her to clear her mind and to let go of thoughts of training, responsibilities, and all distractions. My voice is steady and commanding, a reflection of the leadership role I often inhabit. But in this private moment, it is different— I am guiding her, not as a Sith Lord or a Night Brother, but as a partner.

"Clear your mind," I remind her. "Aim for an absence of all stimuli." I watch her closely as she adjusts her position in my lap as if accommodating my teaching, her chest rises against mine as our breaths synchronize. My gaze narrows slightly, and I question whether she understands the reaction her body is going to prompt from mine. The tiniest curve to her lips tells me that she is fully aware.

I add a more challenging instruction, my voice lowering slightly. "Purge your mind of all desires." It is a test, a way to see if she truly understands the depth of focus that true meditation requires. The nature of our closeness is a distraction in itself, but I want to see if she's able to set aside even those desires in pursuit of the meditative state.

I continue, my voice a steady guide. "Let your body relax." It is a strange juxtaposition—guiding her in meditation while she's seated in my lap, both of us so close, yet striving for a state of mental detachment. It is a challenge, to the strength of her mind.

Amid the intimacy of our shared breaths and gentle touches, I guide her with a single word. "Breathe," I murmur, a directive that extends beyond the realm of meditation, a reminder to embrace the present moment.

Time unfolds with its rhythm, and our breaths intertwine as we share a moment of profound intimacy. I sense the currents of energy between us, a peculiar connection that reaches beyond the mere act of meditation. My mind begins to settle, finding a semblance of relief amidst the chaos that usually engulfs it. The weight of my responsibilities and the constant battles fade, if only for a fleeting moment.

Yet, this respite is short-lived as I detect a shift in Zeala's thoughts. I cannot read them as I would an open book, but the undercurrents of her consciousness are unmistakable. She is thinking of me. A fact that should be incongruous with the state of thoughtlessness this meditation aims to achieve.

My eyes flicker open. Her presence, so near and enveloping, is both comforting and distracting, her curves pressed against my muscled torso. My irritation surfaces as I realize that the robe she procured from me, is slipping off her shoulders, leaving little to my imagination. I inwardly grumble at the situation, annoyance, and arousal swirling within me.

Despite my inner turmoil, she appears serene, her calm façade against my internal storm. I can sense her thoughts taking a more intimate direction, a current of desire and longing that courses through her, coming off in waves, she likely does not even realize she is doing it.

It is a shift that puzzles me initially. Is she merely pretending? Yet, as I study her more closely, I come to realize that her calm is genuine, her thoughts unclouded by deception.

The peculiar absence of nothingness in her thoughts begins to have an unexpected effect on me. A sense of calm begins to wash over me. It is as if her serene thoughts are affecting me, transcending the boundaries of our physical closeness.

The act of meditation between us has transformed into something different, something more profound. It's as though her tranquility is merging with my own, weaving an unspoken bond between us, transcending the confines of language and reason.

The space between us diminishes to nothing and her body is pressed against mine in ways that make concentrating or clearing my mind impossible. I can feel my body responding to her, my cock stirs and desire floods my veins.

"You are distracting." My voice is full of discontent. “This meditation is futile.”

She suggests that if I would prefer solitude then she will leave me to my thoughts, her hands exerting a subtle push on my chest as if preparing to withdraw. In response, I grip her waist more firmly pulling her even closer, conveying without words that I want her right here with me.

Zeala's fingers embark on a delicate exploration, gliding from my shoulders down my arms and back up to my neck. The sensation is an odd mixture of pleasure and anticipation, a battle of conflicting emotions that I'm not entirely sure how to process. As her touch ventures upward, following the curve of my neck, it takes on a different quality, an almost tingling sensation that resonates through my core.

Peace and calm, which I had sought through meditation, begin to yield to something entirely different. Desire and longing gradually take their place, like tendrils curling around my thoughts.

Her voice pierces the quiet, breaking the stillness like a gentle ripple in a pond. "Why can't you sleep?" I don't respond immediately, instead, I resort to a jest, attempting to lighten the weight of her question.

“My mate is sitting naked in my lap,” I reply dryly, my words carry a touch of amusement. Her presence, clad in my robe but barely held in place by her posture, is a distraction that I find both tantalizing and vexing. It makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

“Not naked,” she counters.

“Indeed, appropriate attire,” I remark, my tone sardonic as I take in the sight before me. The robe's precarious position on her form is testing my resolve. “Or lack thereof.” There's a subtle, reserved mockery in my voice, a tone I reserve solely for Zeala.

Her eyes open, meeting my gaze with a mischievous glint. “I thought you had mastered meditation,” she taunts, daring me with that enticing tone.

"Indeed, long before you were even aware of the concept," I remind her, a touch of pride underscores my words. But her next words are a tantalizing proposition, a daring challenge that holds a promise of testing my self-discipline.

“Then you won’t mind a challenge.”

She relaxes her posture completely, allowing the robe to slip from her shoulders, and it falls to the ground pooling around us, she has my full attention and she’s keenly aware of it. Astonishingly, I manage to maintain eye contact, despite the temptation presented by her actions. I have seen her naked a hundred times but the pull to touch her is as strong now as it was the first time.

“Witch.”

"Your concentration leaves much to be desired.” She observes my struggles, and it’s clear she’s amused by my predicament. “Am I still distracting you, cyar’ika?” Her voice is akin to a purr and it sets my nerves aflame.

“Yes.”

She is quick to remind me that she had offered to leave me to my thoughts, but I declined her offer. "Seems you're discontent no matter what the circumstances," she muses, her fingers continuing to trace gently following the lines etched into my skin.

"You will not be satisfied until you have driven me to the brink of madness."

"My satisfaction has never been an issue where you are concerned." Zeala’s voice is a melodic murmur meant to excite me.

Just as I am about to unleash my words in a sharp retort, Zeala's gentle touch silences me like a spell. She traces the contours of my lips, "Stop thinking," She commands, the words resonate within me and her unexpected tone leaves me taken aback. It is a tone I have heard many times from her but I have never been on the receiving end of, one that allows no room for argument. Her command cuts through my defenses, and to my surprise, I am unable to hide it, compelled to obey.

She proposes that if finding solace in the absence of thought proves impossible, perhaps I should embrace the swirling currents of my mind instead.

I cannot help but scoff at her suggestion, a retort about the fundamental principles of meditation nearly escapes my lips. However, a glimmer of wisdom in her words gives me pause.

"What are you thinking about?"

The impulse to remain guarded, to keep my vulnerabilities hidden, is strong, but I find the words escaping my lips. "You."

"Then concentrate on me," she instructs, her gaze unwavering. "My voice, my breath."

Unintentionally, defenses waiver, and my innermost thoughts spill forth as though I have no control over them. "Your scent..."

Without hesitation, Zeala acknowledges and embraces my unspoken desire. She tilts her head back exposing the hollow of her throat and I breathe deeply, allowing her scent to envelop me. "Yes, Maul."

It feels foolish as if I am succumbing to a spell woven by mere desires, not being able to resist the charms of a mere woman, all my years of training fail to serve me. I feel weak and I consider pulling away, to put distance between us and retreat into myself as I always have. I feel as though a dam is threatening to burst inside me and something primal demands to be set loose, and the lack of control terrifies me. I am not one to bow to urges, not one to be controlled by simplistic desires; I control the force around me, and I determine my fate.

But then, I feel her hands gently touching me in a way I never knew could be pleasurable. I hear the soft cadence of her breathing, its steady rhythm, I feel her heart beating, a steady echo of life. I can smell her, sense her- my mate. Mine. My arms act of their own accord and wrap around her naked body pulling her to me and I lean into her, I begin to feel myself relaxing as my posture slowly begins to shift. I begin to feel the ease of calm that has eluded me for days and I surrender to her suggestion, allowing her to now guide me.

Zeala's hands continued to trace the intricate lines of my tattoos. The air around us seemed to grow lighter and cooler, and the weight of my thoughts slowly dissipates.

In that moment, what began as a lesson has transformed into something entirely different—a union of minds and souls, an intimate connection that transcends the boundaries of the physical world. In the firelit room, amidst the flickering torchlight and ancient stone walls, my mind still grapples with the unexpected calm that has settled upon me.

Is this what people mean when they speak of soulmates?

She prompts me to reflect on the purpose of meditation, and I responded with the essence of my practice.

"To achieve steadiness and focus, and calm,"

Her approval is conveyed in a subtle nod, and her touch moves up my neck—a soothing gesture that grounds me in the present moment. As her fingers dance across my skin, I feel a sense of tranquility settle within me, as if her presence is a tether to some unexplored realm.

“How do you feel?”

Drawing a breath, I follow her rhythm, allowing her to lead me further. "Steady," I murmur, a declaration that resonated with assurance. With each breath that follows, I traverse the landscape of my thoughts, acknowledging the truth that lies beneath. "Focused."

As I exhale, a sense of acceptance unfurls within me. The word I utter holds a quiet revelation, one that carries a sense of wonderment. "Calm," I confess, the syllable carrying the weight of an unfamiliar emotion. It is a state I rarely permit myself to embrace fully.

The progression of her touch continues, lips brushing against my skin as her fingers glide over my arms and up the sides of my face, stopping tantalizingly short of the base of my horns. It is a touch that's both soothing and maddeningly teasing. A low growl rumbles in my throat, a mixture of frustration and desire as I command:

"More."

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication, as the boundaries of our meditation continue to blur.

She hesitates only long enough to make me crave more, then those cool, delicate fingers continue their journey along my crown, from the base of my horns to their very tips and back again. The sensation is electrifying, causing my skin to erupt in goosebumps and my body to shudder in response. The rhythmic motion sets off a series of reactions within me, from the erratic beat of my hearts to the hitch in my breath. I'm overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience, a mixture of pleasure and vulnerability.

Her fingers stroke the contours of my horns, and I find myself unable to control the grip of my hands on her hips. My fingers dig into her flesh, a mixture of desperation and desire fueling my actions, my body aches to become one with hers. My breathing, once steady and measured, becomes shallow and erratic. I find myself whispering a confession that I've kept buried within me. "Stay," I murmur, the words a quiet plea. "I– need you."

It is a confession that I am not accustomed to making and it catches me off guard. My life has been defined by pain, solitude, and the pursuit of power. The companionship that Zeala offers is both foreign and terrifying, a realm of emotions I have long been unaccustomed to, even feared. Yet, despite my resistance, I have come to recognize the significance of her presence in my life.

In the wake of my admission, Zeala's touch persists, her fingers weaving patterns of comfort and intrigue.

Her words, tinged with playful observation, traced a path of revelation through my consciousness. "I like this meditation." She muses, her touch brushing my earlobe in a gentle caress that gives me chills.

Her words strike a chord within me, encapsulating the truth of our shared experience. What began as a simple attempt to find solace in meditation has transformed into an intimate connection, a unique communion of shared breaths and unspoken understanding. In her presence, I have discovered a new dimension of meditation—one that exists solely between us, an unspoken language of connection and serenity.

“It is too highly flawed to be effective.” I counter, sensing the internal dam straining against the pressure of my emotions.

“You mean to tell me this doesn’t relax you?” Her voice carries genuine concern, she expects a different answer.

“No,” I growl in response, something hot and carnal burning beneath the surface and I have held it at bay long enough. "It is impossible to find a relaxed state of mind when my cock thickens and aches and every inch of my body demands your touch," My voice is thick with a potent blend of frustration and desire.

Without a moment's hesitation, my actions are resolute, and I crush her mouth against mine in a kiss that defies all inhibitions. In the early stages of my pursuit of Zeala, the concept of a kiss was foreign to me, shrouded in confusion and unfamiliarity. I struggled to discern its purpose, questioning the necessity of such an intimate gesture. At first, the notion of deriving pleasure from such an act eluded me, and I failed to recognize the subtle allure it possessed. My initial reaction was one of caution, even interpreting it as a form of aggression rather than a physical connection.

Under Zeala's alluring instruction, I gradually came to understand the depth and significance of a kiss. Through her guidance, I learned to not only appreciate its nuances but also to derive enjoyment from its intimate embrace. Over time, I honed my skills, mastering the art of the kiss and using it to stoke desire and kindle passion in my mate. With every brush of lips, I can elicit a breathless longing and a hunger for my touch, a mastery that occasionally grants me a strategic advantage, playing to my advantage in unexpected ways.

The kiss is a hungry and passionate exchange that goes beyond mere physical desire. It is a connection that transcends the boundaries of the material world. "Witch," I breathe against her lips, my voice is a low rumble infused with a blend of emotions. This term holds intricate layers of meaning—a fusion of adoration, a sense of being enchanted, and the profound recognition of the spell she casts over me.

My lips meet hers again and she offers no resistance when I seek entry with my tongue, she offers no resistance but embraces me, and her hands stroke their way up my chest. She’s pliable in my hands and I feel her sigh into my mouth with each soft stroke of my tongue against hers. Yet, I am not done. In a voice that is a mere whisper, a secret to be shared between us alone, I speak the words,

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,"

The Mando'a proclamation of love that I seldom utter aloud. Her reaction is subtle, yet I catch it, and I feel it. A gentle inhale, so delicate and filled with fondness, escaping into a soft whimper. I have surprised her, the evidence in her firm embrace that draws me nearer, her grip tightened with an urgency that speaks of her emotions.

With those words, I let her in further, allowing her to witness the vulnerability that lay beneath the veneer of my strength. In her presence, I find acceptance, understanding, and the rare comfort of a companionship that has the power to heal even the deepest of my wounds. Her scent is all over me, she soothes me and her touch leaves me wanting her closer. It is almost unbearable how much I enjoy it. I feel drunk with want and I easily negotiate her into her back, she does not seem bothered by the cold stone floor, no matter either way, I will warm her should she chill.

Her slender legs wrap around my waist, prompting a lazy thrust of my hips and I savor the sounds she elicits. My arms cage her against the floor. It lacks the comfort of the bed we share but it is too far a walk and my desire has reached its peak. I will have her here, right now.

Never before has meditation left me in such a state; ravenous, hungry, half mad, and desperate. I want to hear her cry out my name, I want all of Dathomir to hear her sing for me. And sing she will.

Her nails rake down my chest, the sensation stings at first then it just tickles, my patience with this woman is fractured and I want nothing more than to bury my cock inside her. To make her take all of me and feel her convulse in pleasure as I fuck her without quarter. I can smell her arousal now, her sweet perfume calls to me, and I can feel my mouth watering, whipping me up into a frenzy, and my control splinters further.

Those clever fingers of hers reach down my chest offering teasing touches to my muscled body searching for my trousers and pulling at the remaining physical barrier between us. I growl like a wild beast when her hand slips inside and grasps my cock, her thumb stroking the hard ridges in a way that makes my entire being falter. A breath claws its way from my lungs and I break our kiss. Physical intimacy has not been a factor in my life, not until I met Zeala but she was quick to school me in the exquisite art of release.

My breaths are shallow and I try to steady myself to gain an iota of control but she has a game she likes to play, to see how quickly she can bring me to orgasm. In this regard she is the more talented of us both, and she is doing it now. Alternating between softly and firmly stroking my cock, teasing the ridges and her thumb works circles over my head, swirling about the evidence of my desire for her. The sensations are maddening and they are made worse when I feel her lips and tongue graze my nipple. I snarl as my hips thrust into her skilled hand, her touch is fire upon my skin and I need more of it.

Kriff, this woman.

I let her have her fun for a few moments but as the seconds slip by I can almost taste her in the air, but it’s not enough, I need to savor her. Need to make her shudder and writhe against me, to make her crave the pleasure that only I can give her. No one can know her as I can. No one can touch her as I can. My grasp is strong yet gentle, as I take her jaw in my hand, conveying a desire to hold her attention. I tilt her face towards mine, wanting to lock eyes with her, to delve into the depths of her gaze, and for a moment, make our connection irrefutably clear.

I stroke her lower lip and the coy minx she is, sets her teeth upon me, her tongue darts out to lick my thumb before sucking softly.

I demand her to open her lips to me and she does with an abandon that sets my body aflame. I drink deeply of her lips before moving down her body to what it is I truly want. The softness of her breasts is too tempting for me to ignore them any longer, she moans at feeling my teeth nipping and pulling with just enough pressure for it to almost hurt. She thrives off the fine line between pleasure and pain and the revelation first stunned me. I alternate between the harshness of teeth and the soothing strokes of my tongue and lips against her nipples and her body writhes and jolts whenever I do. If I play my hand right I will have her coming undone just from my current ministrations. As time goes on the more sensitive she becomes, a trait I relish using to my advantage. Until she whimpers and she can’t control how she writhes against me, the slightest breath on her skin will send her flying higher than any narcotic could ever hope to achieve.

As I make my way down her body, my tongue dips into her navel, I can see her breathing is slow and steady but I can feel her body beginning to tense. My breath teases her where I know she wants me most. The warmth of my mouth, the sensual strokes of my tongue, she’s thrumming with need.

“Test my concentration, will you? Let us see how you fare.”

Her body opens to me with little provocation and I can feel my lust surge up, demanding I take, and so I do. Her breasts rise in a deep breath which she struggles to conceal as I enjoy her. Although I required guidance on the act of kissing, kissing her this intimately came naturally to me, and I needed little guidance. Slow, leisurely strokes of my tongue against her cunt have her keening against me, her scent permeates the air. I devour her like she’s a treat, and she is. A sweet delicacy only for my enjoyment. Her legs tremble slightly with want as I purposely avoid her clit, I can be cruel sometimes wanting to see how far I can push her till she begs me for exactly what she wants.

My witch seems to think she can wordlessly coerce me into submitting by gently touching the base of my horns once more. She pushes herself up on her elbows and her reach is extended, I can feel her eyes on me. Her fingers stroke my crown with more assertion, aiming for a less delicate approach and I feel its effects immediately. The tremors that race throughout my body and my cock twitches with need, my zabrack physiology works against me now.

A growl rumbles deep within me as I harness the power of the Forces symphony of unseen energies bending to my command. With a purposeful gesture, I direct these cosmic currents, orchestrating their unseen embrace. Her form, once upright, yields to my unseen will, her arms gently pinned above her head, surrendering to my influence.

I sense her strength, a formidable energy that dances within her, yet my connection to the vast cosmic web is more refined, more potent. I see the spark in her eyes, the intrigue of relinquishing control, of being enveloped in the inescapable grasp of my touch. It's a dance we share, a unique understanding that only she and I comprehend.

Sly amusement curls the corner of my mouth, a private expression meant solely for Zeala's gaze. In this moment, our connection pulses with unspoken understanding, a dance of power and desire, a mesmerizing duet between two souls who share something rare and exhilarating.

My hands wrap around her soft thighs giving her no means of escaping me. Only when she is at my mercy do I truly enjoy her, my lips, tongue, and occasionally my teeth tease her, coaxing more and more labored breathing from her. Her breathing transforms before my ears, a subtle shift that reveals to me her internal struggle. From the initial composed, practiced breaths, a hint of excitement and anticipation creeps in, causing a mild acceleration. But I don’t stop there; as my intimate kiss deepens, her mews and whimpers are laden with an undeniable urgency, a manifestation of her desire that resonates powerfully in the air. Her rhythm is now a symphony of need, a melody of longing. Such sweet sounds and I relish each one. Truly, I know her body so well that I could have her coming apart for me within seconds but drawing it out like this is so much more enjoyable. I have always taken my time in this act, and I will not be rushed.

The first time she cried my name in desperation, I felt a rush that nearly overwhelmed my senses. Hearing her voice, pleading for my touch, was a sensation beyond anything I could have imagined. More powerful than any Force ability I have ever utilized. The words she uttered, so filled with need, were a revelation I had not anticipated—nor had I foreseen the intensity of my craving to hear them again. It is a sensation as exhilarating as any battle won and as sweet as victory itself, yet still, nothing quite compares.

I can feel her body tighten as I stroke her warmth with a single finger, then another joins it and another. I want her ready for me, although judging by how she soaks my hand and quenches my thirst, it won’t take much to ensure she takes me effortlessly. The dual stimulation drives her harder and faster toward her peak. She continues to make sweet sounds for me and they grow in need.

I can feel when she is reaching that delicious crest, ready to tip over and I know a hundred ways in which to make her fall. She pulls at the invisible bonds that hold her down as I lap at her throbbing clit with featherlight strokes, my tongue over each growing more firm and my slicked fingers continue stroking and curling inside her until I hear it.

My name.

She’s full of desperation and there’s a need in her voice as her body is wracked with pleasure. Her hips twist and turn, her body shudders against the onslaught that is my kiss and while I slow my assault, I do not stop.

I can’t. The way she cries; “Yes, yes, yes!” And the most sinful of her cries, a fragile and wanton “Please…” I need to taste her more until she’s spent, I don’t know why, but I relish in this power. A power over her body, to bestow endless pleasure instead of pain to know how and where to touch her. To see her revel in the throws of an orgasm while simultaneously almost unable to handle its intensity.

It is a cruelty that as pleasure envelopes her, her body becomes more and more sensitive to the extent that pleasure merges and becomes one with pain. Were it within the scope of my control, it would not be that way, I would never see her in any discomfort… but I know she can take a little more.

So I push her as the waves traverse her body and she writhes against my mouth a slave to my hunger, but my only whim is to see her come fully undone again before I seek my release. It happens so quickly, it always does. It takes so little, such a light touch to her already aching and sensitive clit and she’s coming again, her lips part in a wordless cry. Her hips and back tries to arch off the ground but she is still trapped by my will, unable to move unless I permit it. She curses in our shared tongue of Mando’a, and says all manner of things meant to excite me and they all do. She cries for me to never stop but the trembling in her voice tells me she is struggling with the endless waves of pleasure and begs me to fuck her. Were I less of a man, I might have lost myself then and there to the erotic display, my mate, my Zeala lost in the throes of passion, pleasure and sex.

I release her quivering flesh from my mouth, relinquishing my hold over her, returning her freedom to her, and she’s quick to rise and return to my lap, forcing her tongue into my mouth. She overwhelms me with her aggression and it stirs something in me, knowing she isn’t yet sated and she won’t be until she feels my cock sheathed inside her body. Until I’ve marked her with my seed, I hurriedly work the trousers off my hips just enough that I can take her. There’s time later for there to be nothing at all between us but right now I ache for her, I need to feel her engulf me and feel her walls welcome my stiff cock. Need to be safe within her warmth and presence. I feel only need.

Her hands stroke the ridges on my cock once more and I heave in several short breaths, I hiss at her touch, her eyes bore into mine and I am falling into an abyss as she sinks onto my cock. The breath is pulled from my lungs and her mouth is on mine. She licks at the remnants of her release lingering on my tongue. Clutching onto me as though if she doesn’t I will fade from her grasp. Her walls grip me and I struggle to remember how to breathe. It’s always like this no matter how hard, or how many times I have her, it is as though she was made for only me. Perhaps fate has chosen to be kinder to me now, to give me such a woman.

For a moment we are motionless, there is only the sound of our breathing and the feel of her lips against mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders and the sting is perfect, her thighs squeeze my legs with each slow and lazy thrust as I begin to move. Her lips part and tremble as she arches her back against me and I gain control of my breathing once more, I can never tire of this, never. Not of this act, not of this woman, the stars would burn out into nothingness first. And it is Zeala who breaks our intimate silence with a command that I can’t ignore.

“More.”

I don’t even bother acknowledging her request with a nod or an answer, I only obey a slave to desire. I have to shift our position slightly but once I do I withdraw from her and thrust back up. I grit my teeth at the sensation, the heat of her body, the slickness that coats my cock, and how she squeezes me exquisitely.

My thrusts are slow and deep at first, I need to savor each time her walls clench around me. I need to know she’s as lost in pleasure as I am. She utters my name again with greater urgency. This woman wants me. I’m a monster but I am her monster.

“You’re holding back… don’t.” She clings to me and she forces her tongue into my mouth. I accept it greedily, but I maintain my relaxed pace despite how I know she wants me. “Maul! Please…” She’s insatiable, she craves a faster pace and a harder one. Who am I to deny her what she desires?

I will rip apart the fabric of reality if it offends her so, I will tear down civilizations and erase entire cultures of the annals of history should she ask it of me.

Her fingers weave through my horns with a touch that sends pure electricity through my body and I thrust harder, faster. I can hear my grunts match hers each time I impale her on my cock. She trembles as my hard ridges stroke places in her no other man has, or ever will reach. I wonder if this was what she intended from the moment she crawled into my lap, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest right now.

I cannot manage words, only groans and growls, noises more akin to a wild beast but right now I am such a creature. Her hands on my chest cause me to slow my pace and I relent slightly, uncertain as to what she wants. She pushes me down, flat on my back and my legs straighten from the cramped position I was sitting in, a feral sound claws past my lips when she sinks into my cock and I am lost in the pleasure of my mate’s heat and her scent. The steady rock of her hips against mine racks my body with tremors as she rides me, ‘Sweet Mother’. I allow my eyes to close and the sensations to course through me, my chest heaves in a breath as my cock throbs each time she slides upon it, impaling herself. It is good, so good I cannot be bothered to think of anything else. There is no Dathomir, no galaxy, no Force, no Jedi, no Sith, nothing. There is only Zeala and I.

I force my eyes open, feeling drunk, and the room blurs and spins. Everything is out of focus, save for Zeala. Rocking herself on my cock, her hands stroking her breasts, using my body for her pleasure and only for hers. She grips me like a vice and I am powerless, truly powerless as she brings herself closer to another orgasm, I can only watch as this creature who makes my blood burn and my hearts thunder, fucks herself. Every inch of her is mine and no other man will ever see her or touch her, it incites a powerful shockwave through my body and I can feel the rush of my impending release. I can do nothing to stop it and I don’t care to. My breath comes in short gasps and I growl as those white hit waves lap at me, threatening to drown me in electric shockwaves.

Zeala slows her rocking and is quick to climb off my cock but before I can voice my displeasure; her mouth, her perfectly wicked mouth and tongue lavish my cock with attention. Her tongue licks up and down my length before swallowing me. I can feel the back of her throat brushing my head, it is perfect and something primal in me wants to see her swallow every drop of my seed I can give her. Stars this woman, then she does!

I howl as I spill into her mouth and like a hungry animal she swallows me, all I have to give. My muscles burn and my fists clench as my body eagerly greets the crest that is pulling me under. I growl her name and for a moment, I am lost to it all.

I feel everything, my body pulses in time and my skin tingles from the tips of my horns to my toes, and at that moment there is no greater pleasure, no force more powerful than this feeling barreling through my chest.

Is it moments or seconds in which my senses return to me? I am not certain, but as I come back down, my hands shake and I see my mate, Zeala, the mother of my son, mine in all the stars. Lavishing the sweetest of kitten licks on my cock, and each one sends a jolt through me, sweeter than the last. I manage to choke out her name and her eyes meet mine. A devious look flashes in those violet pools and she soothes the hard ridges of my cock with her lips and tongue before stopping.

My physiology differs from hers in that I am not nearly as sensitive to pain and overstimulation as she is, but as it subsides, my cock is hard and I am ready to take her again.

“Such a greedy thing you are, swallowing my cum. I think it is time to take you properly...” I growl. She dips her head back down and continues to swallow my length again, and I feel as though I can breathe fire. “Cyar’ika…!”

It is with some effort that I disentangle our bodies once and she hesitantly relinquishes my cock. I ache and throb from her talented mouth, but I want to bury myself inside her again.

The firelight flickers as I put her on her back and take her mouth while I tease and stroke her body. She leans into my touch and she hungers for more so I oblige her.

My fingers stroke through her folds, shuddering at the overwhelming slickness I find there. She moans into my mouth as my thumb finds that delicate little spot, that all-encompassing bundle of nerves, stoking a fire between her legs once more. I swallow her sounds, feeding off the raw desire, it spurs me on, an addiction unlike anything I’ve ever known before. One of her legs wraps around my waist and attempts to pull me forward but I shake my head at her and tell her:

“Stay still. I want to watch you tremble before me again.”

My mouth claims hers again and to my surprise she obeys me, her eyes close and she lies still while I continue to touch her. The softest touches, the ones that I know set her skin ablaze, they make her crave more and she whimpers as my lips enclose a nipple coaxing it to a hardened state. Her noises grow louder, little sighs and gasps, such lovely sounds.

I can feel her body tighten with each stroke over her silky clit, her back arches pushing those perfect breasts closer to my mouth for me to taste at my leisure. She can barely say my name, but she does say it, a choked sob as another orgasm overtakes her. She is becoming more sensitive and stars help me. I love it.

I can feel her trembling as the crest subsides and she’s trying so hard to take what I’m giving her but she’s losing the battle. I can feel her body beginning to shake, she will cry tears and pass out from the sensations before she asks me to stop. Stubborn woman. The way her blush colors her pale skin is radiant and I slow my assault on her body and withdraw my fingers bringing them to my mouth while she catches her breath.

We exchange no further words, I know what she wants. I want it too.

Our shared kiss is deeper now, a meeting and melding of souls, hungry for the presence of the other.

She rises on her knees to join me and I turn her so that her back is nestled against my chest, her arm curls around my neck, keeping me close enough that she can kiss me, and I, her. My arm wraps around her hip and I drive up between her spread legs, she greets my cock with a deep groan of satisfaction. My face is buried in the crook of her neck breathing her in, I hear her breathing, I feel her heartbeat, and I feel her walls strangle me. She is almost part of me like this, it is too perfect, and neither of us will last long in this position.

My thrusts are slower and deeper, our pace more relaxed and leisurely. A luscious pur escapes her lips when I begin pushing her back to another orgasm, her legs tremble slightly at my teasing touch as my fingers ghost over her thighs.

I am a selfish man at heart, I want what I want and nothing will stop me from attaining what it is that I desire, and right now I desire to see Zeala come over my cock. To feel her thrash against me, so lost in the throes of passion that I see into her very soul.

Her soft whimpers send bolts of lightning down my spine and straight to my cock, she grips me like a vice and my senses are flooded with sensation after sensation, nothing is more powerful than what is happening between us. The Force itself pales in comparison to the energy that exists here in this room.

She grips the back of my neck and her fingers brush against the base of my horns and it spurs me to increase my pace. My arms wrap around her now, needing her as close to me as possible, needing to feel every inch of her against me.

I fuck her hard now with wild abandon, she pleads with me to take her harder, to mark her with bruises that she will wear as proud badges, she wants the galaxy to know who she belongs to.

Me.

My body throbs in time with the very heartbeat of the universe, every nerve is alight, and every muscle aches from this exquisite dance. I cannot hold out much longer, her nails sink into my skin searing tiny crescents into my flesh and her tongue teases my lips in a kiss that burns hotter than any lightsaber.

She bites at my lower lip and growls at me, growls. She struggles to speak but tells me she is going to cum again, and she wants to feel me cum with her. She begs me to. How can I deny this creature when she pleads so sweetly?

I cannot.

I tell her with a single command, one I know she will obey “Come.” and she does! Her exquisite pleasure pushes me further and I roar as my release comes, my hot seed fills her body as we are joined in this. Her walls flutter around my cock, milking every drop. Dathomir itself seems to shake as our bodies tremble together, dissolving into pleasure. It is almost overwhelming once more, my thrusts finally slow and I feel more sated and at peace than I have in a while.

It is most certainly due to Zeala, coming in my hand has never given me the satisfaction I feel with her in my arms, clinging to me as though she cannot stand, though perhaps she cannot. Her heart beats wildly and her breathing slows as we remain tethered together for a few moments more, lost in the afterhaze of our passions.

“Now, I am tired,”

I grumble into her neck, as my cock slips from her body, finally feeling the sweet call of sleep. Although my muscles burn from our held position I would not trade this experience, nor any time Zeala and I have sought pleasure together. I will suffer through the stiff and sore muscles I’m and I will deal with them when morning comes, each throb of pain will serve as a reminder of the exquisite pleasure we shared here. And every time my body cries out in discomfort I will hear only her cries and her moans. She rests against my body and it is clear that I have tired my mate properly, her labored breathing is evident enough of that and it brings an accomplished smile to my face. Once I am able to rise to my feet and I cradle Zeala in my arms as I do. She is her most desirable now, her most beautiful, completely fucked and satisfied basking in the afterglow.

It is time to return to our bed. Even though I am able to sleep anywhere, I yearn for our bed, to feel her sleeping bare against me. And while I feel no such concept as shame or embarrassment over my naked body, I desire the privacy our room affords us that I may enjoy her warmth again.

The sheets are cool to the touch and as soon as my body rests comfortably with Zeala wrapped around me, my eyes feel heavy. Tomorrow Dathomir awaits us, but right now, I am safe with her in my arms and I feel I am finally able to sleep.

___

Wow, this was only 10k words which is like my shortest one shot to date... Guess there's hope for me after all. I am gradually working my way through my WIPs and I'm so happy to see this one done as I wrote it for a friend and I wasn't really much of a Darth Maul fangirl but I certainly am now! How did I do guys? Did you like Zeala? What do you think about a story from Mauls perspective? I personally really enjyoed writing it and maybe I'll do more with the male characters POV stories. Smutty one shot from Obi-wans POV? I would love to know what goes through that mans head while he's getting head... Sorry! Kinda spaced out for a minute! Let me know what you think! Reblog, comment and like and I will see yo uin the next one, bye!

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